


Stay

by CupidStrikes



Category: Tales of Xillia
Genre: M/M, Mild spoilers for their names I guess?, Snarky sex, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 09:29:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3442058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CupidStrikes/pseuds/CupidStrikes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The logistics of intercourse in a tent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YumeHanabi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YumeHanabi/gifts).



> For Yume. I am so sorry this took so long to write and that I can't write endings.
> 
> Lyrics are from 'Cradled in Love' by Poets of the Fall.

Stay

 

_So with the fire still burning bright,_   
_I wanna gaze into your light_   
_As if I could see my fortune there,_   
_You know how flames can hypnotize_

 

Having sex in a tent is not easy.

 

There are few ways to make even the flattest patch of earth soft enough for the person on the bottom not to end up with bruises the next day, or at best a very stiff back. Then there is the lack of nearby bathrooms to clean up in afterwards, and the very thin, very much non-soundproofed walls, and the tendency for any light from within to risk giving anyone outside a shadow puppet show of what is going on within.

 

Nonetheless, Gaius and Wingul have little other choice; until Kanbalar and Auj Oule is theirs a tent will have to do. They could be patient and wait until they're not camped out in the shadow of a mountain with soldiers patrolling back and forth outside, but there is a battle tomorrow. One or both of them might die, this is unspoken between them. To speak of death before war is a bad omen.

 

“Ow.” Wingul huffs irritably as he stretches out on the blankets and feels a rock prod his pelvis from the ground below. He half-growls when Gaius sinks his teeth into the flesh below his collarbone, muffling the sound into his fist and shivering against the other man as the pain shoots through him.

 

“Patience, Lin,” Gaius whispers, looking up at him with a smirk that makes Wingul scowl. He sits back on his heels and looks down at the other man for a moment before grasping his thighs and sliding him closer, ignoring the quiet curses from him and meeting his rough kiss with equal ferocity, “Easy.”

 

He laughs against Wingul's lips and wraps an arm around him.

 

“Relax.” Gaius's voice is breeze-soft against Wingul's ear but he feels it like an order and goes lax in his arms, barely twitches when he feels the other man enter his body. He forgets about the ache in his back and the chill from the air and folds in against Gaius's body. He is firm, all muscle and battle-hardened flesh, with rough wisps of scar tissue here and there that rasp against Wingul's own flesh, raising goosebumps in their wake. He feels Gaius move and the shiver it sends up his spine makes his lungs seize up for a second.

 

The same must have happened to Gaius as his breath shudders against Wingul's neck and when the larger man tenses, whispers curses in Wingul's language, and presses harder against him something about the motion arouses Wingul far more than any amount of foreplay ever could. Nothing phased Gaius, no descriptions or events could tease even the slightest flinch or wince from him, and yet here he was, composure cracking and peeling away piece by piece just from the sheer intensity of this one intimate act. That knowledge alone made a warm feeling roil in Wingul's chest with pride, and maybe something quite a bit more.

 

Wingul's face betrays none of this, neither did his actions as he dug his bony heels into Gaius's lower back.

 

“Get on with it.”

 

The future king laughs breathily against his skin, muttering something about petulant brats and the value of patience. Wingul's angry response is lost in a groan when Gaius does indeed _get on with it_ and pulls out almost to the tip and then driving back home.

 

“Yes, Your Grace.”

 

Those words are what has Wingul finally lose his composure, and his temper, and he unleashes his nails upon Gaius's back and arms. He keeps his nails slightly longer than necessary for this very purpose, much to the confusion of several of his men whom often wondered how a warrior could keep such fine nails, or want to, and put it down to some Long Dau trick. There is no trick, and Wingul puts up with the inconvenience of maintaining them for the satisfaction of hearing Gaius's breath catch in his throat when he feels the sharp sting of his skin being torn into. These are no loving lines of passion that will swell slightly and heal within hours. No, Wingul leaves short, jagged welts and shallow, bleeding valleys in Gaius's dark skin that require a gel to avoid uncomfortably scabbing or difficult questions.

 

From there on it becomes a contest to see who can lose their stoic composure entirely first. Both try to hold out for as long as possible, Wingul biting and clawing at Gaius until he grits his teeth and presses his face into the other man's neck to hide the way his eyes are squeezed closed so tightly that moisture that definitely isn't sweat has begun to bead and fall down his cheeks. Gaius's slips are more audible than visible. He stutters and swears quietly, the words barely coherent or discernible over the heavy panting of his breathing. It doesn't last much longer from there and Wingul is the first to crack, biting Gaius's shoulder deep enough for blood to immediately well up in the cuts, trickling and pooling in the hollow on his collarbone. Gaius grunts but holds Wingul there, close, feeling more than hearing his muffled cries as he reaches completion. He longs for the day when their bunk will be secure enough for him to hear those noises unfiltered. Gaius is silent when he comes. He bows his head lower and the previously rhythmic thrusts of his hips staggers, staccatoing to a stillness broken only by the shuddering of their diaphragms.

 

The sun has begun to set outside, and the air is cooling rapidly with the coming night. Wingul reaches for the blankets first, wrapping them around his shoulders and letting the excess pool in his lap. It's Gaius's bed, and he doesn't really care about the state of it. Gaius remains lying on his side a while longer, savouring the come down and apparently oblivious to the change in temperature. The cold has never really bothered him anyway and now is no different. After a while, long enough that Wingul has begun to wonder if he had fallen asleep, Gaius pushes himself into a seated position and reaches for his shirt. He slips it over his head and Wingul almost acknowledges the feeling of disappointment when all that fine anatomy is covered up. He settles for viciously picking at a loose thread on the blanket, watching it tighten and pull at stitches further up into the design. Gaius clears his throat and Wingul hates the way his head snaps up to attention immediately.

 

“Same again tomorrow?” He catches the punch that Wingul throws (and it's a hard one, the git) with a laugh, drawing him into a kiss and not minding the taste of his own blood on the other's lips.

 

“It's a date.”


End file.
